One Night Stand
by Nasu Hasami
Summary: Of all the things Fa Mulan wanted for herself, being a sex ninja wasn't high on the list. Modern AU.


**One Night Stand**

**By Nasu Hasami**

* * *

_Warning: (Mature) Modern Retelling. Yes, it is what you think._

_Disclaimer: The writing is mine. The people are not._

_AN: HLB is one year old. _

_This is a thank you to the readers, or something along those lines._

* * *

Of everything that was wrong with this scene, the thing that was most wrong with it, was that she was in the middle of it. Fa Mulan didn't do _this_ sort of thing. Fa Mulan had never done _this_ sort of thing. No, it was Mei that constantly got herself into _these_ situations, scratching around some _guy's_ bedroom for her underwear, swearing and crying into her phone.

_Mulan…I don't know where I am…sniff…I can't find my bra…sniff…No, I don't know his name…_

Mulan's eye's flickered up from the floor to the half-naked man sleeping like a log on the bed before her. The elusive bra was hanging rather precariously from the lampshade next to his head, taunting her. _I know what you did last night_, it teased as it flickered slightly in the morning breeze.

She crawled around to it, having already scavenged up her panties and her jeans. Crawling seemed most logical to her tainted brain in the early morning light. If he woke – the mystery man (whose name currently evaded her) – she could commando roll under the bed and quiet her breathing. He'd never even know she was there. She'd just wait until he was in the shower and sneak out, like a ninja…_or something_.

Of all the things Fa Mulan thought she would amount to, a sex ninja wasn't one of them. Tingting was turning out to be a bad influence. Swearing would be appropriate in this situation, but swearing would wake the sleeping male. This clothing recognisance was his fault anyway. He couldn't just wait until they were in his bedroom, no. Mulan had a vague inkling her blouse was in the living room of his apartment. She'd found her jeans in the kitchen. She wasn't even really sure what she was going to do once she had all her clothing together, and on her person.

Do you leave a note?

_To whom it may concern_

_Last night was lovely, though I remember little of it._

_Thank you_

_The girl from the club_

Was she supposed to leave her name or her phone number?

Maybe drop one of her business cards on his bedside table?

Dear God, how does Mei do this?

Mulan knew very well how Mei did this. She rang someone, in mild hysteria, and waited for whoever it was to come and save her. More often than not, it was Mulan that she rang.

Again her eyes landed on the tanned body on the taupe sheets. He was toned, from his nostrils to his navel; thighs of a runner, calves of a kick boxer. He probably had a black-belt or two tucked away in that impressive wardrobe of his. At least her intoxicated brain had half-decent taste in men: lean, muscular, dark eyed and broody.

Her hand was hanging shakily over her bra strap as those dark eyes stared her down. It was all of a moment before she acclimatised, snatched the offending item and shamelessly rolled under his bed, breathing stilled. She watched as his feet trod around the carpet. Even his feet moved with a sort of militaristic broodiness. The door creaked and he was in the hallway, marching to the bathroom. She just lay there, flat and motionless, studying her breathing until she heard the shower running, wondering if she was the first woman who'd hidden under his bed.

It was seconds before she was fully clothed, in her shoes and out the door, jogging down stairs and out onto the streets, into the congestion and sweetened air.

She'd done it. She'd escaped her first awkward sexual encounter. Her feet only sped up at the thought. She'd escaped without any consequence. He was probably standing in his shower thinking nothing unusual had happened. It had just been another night, just another ordinary Saturday night.

* * *

Li Shang was extremely distracted Monday morning. He couldn't wrap his head around the figures in the finance meeting. He didn't understand a word of the debriefing. Someone was in Spain. Tokyo was booked for staff enrichment. His secretary handed in notice of maternity leave. He was just staring blankly out of his glass office, staring at his underlings, sitting in their cubicles. Yao was standing on his chair, wearing some sort of paper beard thing and yelling in a gruff, nearly racist accent. Shang could only assume the fat idiot was pretending to be Genghis Khan by the asburdly crude costume and irrate tone. The urge to yell at the him didn't run so strongly in his veins today.

It was _that_ idiot's fault he'd gone out on Saturday night. It was _that_ idiot's fault he wound up arguing with some woman about Mao and Feminism.

He'd thought she was a student when he'd first laid eyes on her, all lean and long with fire in her eyes. Only students were that passionate. Yao was there with her friend Mei, or whatever the girl's name was. The pairing off of mutual acquaintances had happened, and they were alone, together, at the bar: just themselves, the alcohol and her comment about him being a Red Prince.

Oh, she knew her stuff. She practically throttled him with Chinese history from the Sui Dynasty through to the Great Leap Forward. It was coincidentally the sexiest and most frightening experience he'd ever encountered in his life. She had just been so feisty and fierce and so, so determined that, unlike her friends, she wasn't going to be seduced by some halfwit and dragged back to his place for the night. She valued herself above a one night stand.

She was ambitious and formidable and he was a little more than intrigued.

Then she just got up and left. Just…finished her argument, gathered her things, kissed her friends goodnight and walked out the door.

He'd never moved faster in his life to catch up to her, running to find her waiting at a street light a block down.

He said something; something that would rattle her and agitate her, something to make her bite. He baited her all the way to his building. He felt so childish and stupid and free, kissing her on the street like an imbecile.

She rattled him in a way that made him want to keep being rattled.

Then they were upstairs, at his door, in the kitchen, in the living room, in the hallway, in his bedroom, in his bed.

She never once said her name.

He hadn't asked for her number.

And he wasn't going to ask Yao on his behalf. His pride wouldn't let him sink that low.

* * *

It had been two months since the incident in the night. Shang spent his weekends on his couch reading reports and financial reviews and drinking beer. He tried to forget about the woman from that night. The one he'd woken up next to, swiping her bra from somewhere above his head. Then he'd seen her, part in pixels, with a metal helmet on her head and a blue scrollbar covering up her hands.

If only he'd known, he would have had his TV on every night.

She was Fa Mulan.

Of course she was Fa Mulan.

It wouldn't make sense for her to have been anyone but Fa Mulan.

And oh, China knew who Fa Mulan was: the reporter that scandalised the nation. She who would go where no one else dared to go! Where she lived no one knew; flight and freedom were keys to her remaining elusive. She had a criminal record for the internet journal she ran nearly a decade ago. She'd been in prison. It had made her a hero. She was a red through-and-through. Her whole ploy was to reveal the corrupt and the overpowered.

Yet here she was, revealing herself temporarily at a disaster relief zone, helping like some celebrity army officer.

He had been in University when print outs of her reports were being circulated. He recalled thinking this girl was stupid and ignorant and irresponsible. Some kid in high school, privileged with an overseas education, pretending to fight for the people. Fa Mulan was as much a Red Princess as he was a Red Prince. Their parents had both been highly regarded officials. They shared similar backgrounds. Their ancestors both belonged to the court, to some degree. The difference was he never pretended to be something that he wasn't. He came from privilege and he knew it; she pretended she didn't.

Maybe he should reschedule the company's next press conference just to remind her of who she'd staggered home with. Or maybe he could just fly out to Ya'an and surprise her. Maybe, he could focus on his reports and get over her too.

* * *

'I'm not going!' Mulan yelled, her phone in front of her, Mei's stupid drunk face smiling up at her.

'Sure you are.'

'No. I have morals.' Or she had, in the past.

'But nothing happened last time. Wait, did something happen last time. OH MY GOD – you slept with someone!'

Mulan cringed at the face on her phone. The cosmopolitan Mei was trying to drink was mostly dribbling down her chin.

'Was he hot?'

'I'm not discussing this with you, Mei!'

Tingting's face appeared on the screen. 'I thought you were mellow that Sunday at brunch. Told you all you needed was a good F-'

'We're not going into this now, at all, with anyone. Yes, okay, something happened. But I was drunk, so it doesn't count.'

'Honey, if being drunk doesn't count, Mei will be a virgin until the day she dies.'

'I have papers to read.'

'Yeah, right! Honestly, is that the best you can come up with? You have morals and you have papers to read?'

'The papers are English so I will need time to translate them.'

'I'll be over to get you in ten minutes.'

'I can run a long way in ten minutes.'

'Not in those slippers you can't.'

* * *

Despite the angle, that lamp looked disturbingly familiar to Mulan.

As did the taupe sheets and the tanned leg tangled within them, and the chiselled abs and the strong jaw.

How do you drunkenly bed the same man twice?

Is it considered a relationship?

Are you dating but not exclusive?

She carefully extracted herself from the mess of bedding, quietly thankful all her clothing seemed to be in a pile at the end of the bed. She looked at the stilettos twice before deciding to carry them instead. She'd made it out of here unnoticed once; she could do it again as long as she was careful.

The man on the bed rolled towards where she'd been, his hand padding briefly around for something, scrunching up the sheets then relaxing. His body leaned forward a little, his other hand moving to his head.

His voice was rough and warm with sleep. Mulan stood there in the doorway watching him. His eyes opened and looked straight at her: the dishevelled woman at the end of his bed with a wrinkled cheongsam and messy sex hair. Briefly, she wondered if she should climb back into the bed next to him, maybe last night could be repeated if she did. His eyes didn't move from her. Or blink. It was slightly unnerving. She bit her lip and swung her bag over her shoulder.

'So, I have a couple of papers to translate, a liver to cleanse and morals to re-evaluate. Guess I'll see you around.' She swivelled on her bare feet, hitched up her dress and bolted for the front door. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs when she heard thumping around and some swearing. Mulan wasn't so sure she could outrun the mysterious sex god if he had joggers and shorts on and she was barefoot in a dress.

She threw the front door open and leapt down the steps, her feet pounding against the pavement as her handbag bumped rhythmically against her hip. Rubber soles slapped the concrete behind her and an arm wrapped itself around her, pulling her into something warm and sweaty. The mysterious sex god was breathing heavily, as he held her to him. The way his hand clutched at her stomach was alarmingly erotic.

Strangely, he didn't speak, just held up something between two fingers. Mulan stared at the business card blankly. He was still panting, his breath heavy and warm on her neck. It was delicious and so, so wrong. She closed her eyes when his lips sunk in.

* * *

The business card was stuck to her fridge with a silver magnet, inconspicuously nested atop a wad of other business cards. She'd never called it, but kept it neatly bundled there, just so she could look at his name. She'd planned on being in Hong Kong for longer than six months when she met him, but Mulan wasn't the sort to embed herself into a relationship that couldn't last, or work around her unpredictable schedule. She didn't really ever get involved with anyone for anything. Li Shang had just been a slip up; an anomaly; a blip on the radar. She'd had too much to drink and was far too emotional. Besides, if he'd wanted to get to know her that badly he could have attained her number from any number of mutual acquaintances. He never called, so she never called.

Though, for a few weeks, she wanted him to. After a couple of months she thought they might meet by accident. But he wasn't at Yao and Mei's wedding and she couldn't make it to Tingting's. Two nights of drunken sex wouldn't mean anything, not after a year or two.

And they didn't.

Not until she was back in Hong Kong and celebrating Su's wedding. It wasn't anything big, just a civil service and a dinner at restaurant she couldn't pronounce the name of. And there his name was, the not-so-mysterious sex god, Li Shang, seated next to her on one of the Bride's family tables. Would it be too awkward to just ignore everything and pretend they were meeting for the very first time? No secret nights of passion. No drunken escapades. Just a man and a woman who didn't know each other, sitting next to each other for no other reason than balancing a table.

His chair was empty and she hoped in vain that he had been detained somehow. Maybe he wouldn't make it and Mulan wouldn't have to relive the humiliating run down the street. Or think about the business card at home on her fridge. Or the what-ifs and the maybes.

A glass of champagne landed in front of her, her eyes latching on to the tanned knuckles around the stem. He leant on the back of her chair, purposefully invading her personal space; drawing a line between acquaintances and something more. Showing the world they were something more.

'How do you know each other,' the woman sitting opposite Mulan asked.

Shang answered for her before she'd even opened her mouth.

'National Service.' He sipped his drink, 'We're both from the Mainland.' His eyes dared her to challenge him. 'She was a pain in the arse.'

The woman looked fondly at her husband, blushing and smiling. She glanced back at Mulan, nodding in her direction and sipping her wine. She could've punched Shang.

'I can't believe you just said that,' Mulan muttered at length. Biding her time and waiting patiently for the couple to wander over to the newlyweds. 'National Service was the toughest two years of my life. How can you possible joke about that?'

'Would you prefer I introduced you as my One Night Stand?_ Oh, hello, this is Mulan, the woman I had amazing sex with two years ago._'

'You could've pretended you didn't know me.'

'Why the hell would I do that? Is that the kind of man you think I am?'

'You never called.'

'I wasn't the one with a phone number – that was you!'

'So, if you had my number, you would have called?'

Their eyes met over the top of their drinks. Shang's lingered on her lips. 'I would have done more than call.'

* * *

Mulan couldn't make out the sheets in the dark. They were soft and gentle against her skin. The silhouette underneath them was familiar, in an odd half remembered sort of way. It shifted and she felt something warm around her waist, something pulling her close to more warmth: an arm, muscular and strong. The arm was attached to a refined torso, sculpted from hours of sit ups and crunches.

'What are you thinking about?' A drunken voice mumbled in her ear, nibbling on her skin.

'You,' Mulan answered honestly.

'Don't run this time. Please.' The request was gentle and it warmed her a little. Tugging those warm arms around her she nestled into that sculpted chest. Shang's heartbeat echoed in her ear.

'Okay.' She whispered, smiling at the soft kiss planted on her cheek before being lulled to sleep by that vaguely familiar heartbeat, and those strangely familiar arms.


End file.
